


Maybe We Will

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:58:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14322030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: Clarke's cheeks are flushed a light pink, the color of the cotton candy swirl."I know it's terrible for me," she says. "But you just can't go to a carnival and not eat something sweet enough to rot your teeth."Bellamy and Clarke's first date, or 4.5k of pure, unadulterated fluff.





	Maybe We Will

**Author's Note:**

> BFF fill for the prompt "can you write a high school au w/ bellarke where they go to a carnival??? lots of fluff and big lead up to a kiss or something please and thank uuuuuu" requested by anonymous.
> 
> Title from the song "So Impossible" by Dashboard Confessional because it's the quintessential high school first-date song imo and also because it is the inspiration for the attempted feel of, especially, the first scene.

Rays of sun, thin and weak as winter light, filter down through the gaps in a crush of gray clouds and through the windows, suffusing Mr. Kane’s History classroom with a mellow glow. Soon it will be dusk. The Arkadia High School Academic Decathlon Team practice has gone long—very long—and already, less than five minutes after Kane dismissed them at last, all of the students have packed up their books and headed home. All but two. 

Bellamy stands in the middle of the second aisle, his backpack slung over his shoulder, a small pile of books he'll be dropping at his locker still sitting on his desk. His fingertips skim over the cover of _A Reader in American Literature_. He's staring down at the shine of the sun on the off-white linoleum floor, and at Clarke, and the bright highlight in her hair as she bends her head. 

Clarke is kneeling on the floor, sliding her thin Decathlon Prep notebook carefully into her bag. She zips it closed, hikes it over her shoulder, and then stands. A long, low tired sigh slips from her. She looks down as she resettles her balance, then sweeps her hair back over her shoulders and looks up. 

Bellamy is staring at her, mouth parted with words left so long on his tongue, he's forgotten he still has to give them voice. 

Clarke tilts her head. "Ready to go?" 

"Oh—yeah." He picks up his books, settles them in under his arm. Then he turns on his heel toward the front of the classroom, manages a couple steps—and pivots back.  

Clarke, barely a step behind him, stutters away at the last moment so that they don't collide. They mumble apologies under their breaths. She could say, _well, are we going or not?_ or _what's wrong?_ but she does not. He could make up an excuse, but he does not.  

Clarke shifts her bag on her shoulder, bites the inner corner of her lip. 

"I was just wondering—" Bellamy starts. 

Clarke lifts her eyebrows, a gesture telling him to _go on_. 

"If you're busy this weekend?" 

She smiles and crosses her arms against her chest. "I hope you're not suggesting we practice for the tournament some more. Because I think we're as prepared as we'll ever—" 

"Actually, I was thinking we could just hang out." 

Clarke's lips part, surprise stilling the answer on the tip of her tongue. 

His gaze flicks to her face and then away. The barely-crooked lines of chairs cast long shadows over the floor. They must be the only ones left in the building by now; even Kane's car has probably pulled out of the parking lot and driven away. No sounds, no running footsteps, no slammed locker doors, puncture the silence. 

“There’s the carnival,” he adds, “out at the fairgrounds. If you want to—” 

“Yeah.” 

A pause, a smile. Bellamy looks surprised for a moment, then grins. 

“Okay, then,” he nods. “It’s a date.” 

* 

They agree to meet up inside the front entranceway, an hour before sunset. Bellamy arrives first. Nervous despite himself and buzzing with energy, he takes up a post right outside the flow of foot traffic and scans every face that passes by. A small rollercoaster of anticipation and disappointment crests and falls in him at every _notClarke notClarke notClarke_ he sees.  

And then, at last, there she is. He's not sure at first that it's really her: she's turned away from him, scanning the crowd off to her right, and she's wearing a blue summer dress that swings just above her knees. He's never seen Clarke wear a dress before. _Date outfit,_ he thinks, and feels sorely under-dressed. 

But then she turns back to him, catches sight of him, waves, and it's real. He waves back as she comes jogging over. "I'm glad I found you," she says. "I couldn't remember if we were supposed to meet just outside or just inside..." She shoves her hands into the pockets of the light jacket she's wearing over the dress. "I hope you weren't waiting long." 

"I wasn't." And even if he'd been waiting an hour, he wouldn't care. Yesterday's clouds have scattered, and under the shine of blue-sky new-spring sun, against the background of colorful tents and patterned booths, the soaring candy colors of the carnival rides in the distance, she looks radiant. Like she did the day a tricky bio question stumped the whole team for an agonizing thirty seconds, until she figured it out, jumped to her feet with the answer and slammed her palm down on the top of her desk, grinning. That was about the moment he knew. And if any doubt lingered, it's gone now. 

"You look nice," he adds. 

Clarke looks down, as if her outfit were a surprise to her, then back up at him, and smiles. "Thanks." She tugs on his jacket. "So do you. Raven picked out the outfit. She has—" Clarke takes in a deep breath, lets it out as a nervous, uneven laugh. "A lot of opinions about how tonight should go." 

"I didn't know Reyes was so invested in your personal life." 

"Neither did I. It was unexpected, but she's well-meaning. I think." Clarke makes a face, self-deprecating and silly, to hide her nerves. Not that she has any reason to be nervous. She's spent plenty of time with Bellamy, mostly at Decathlon practice, sometimes hanging out before or after, or at lunch, where they've talked about school or the team. And they've always gotten along. They share a certain drive—or overdrive, as Raven says—and ambition, and they always laugh at each other's jokes. And yet. All those strategy sessions over cafeteria pizza, late evenings reviewing Clarke's geography flashcards in Kane's classroom...those times were about the team. And this is different because "this,” as Raven reminded her, while jangling through the clothes hangers in Clarke’s closet, “sounds like a date.” 

"He said we should 'hang out,'" Clarke argued, but only for the sake of being contrary. She'd heard Bellamy's voice, seen his nervousness. She'd felt her own pulse jump up in her throat. She knew. 

"He also said it was a date," Raven reminded her—as if it wasn’t an expression, and as if they both didn’t know that was beside the point. Clarke just hadn’t wanted to say it aloud. But she’d let Raven convince her to wear the flirty blue dress with the tiny white flowers, and her hair down and pulled back at the sides; she’d let Raven take her on as a project because it was easier than thinking _what if it’s awkward? What if we don’t know what to say?_

“I know what you mean,” Bellamy’s saying. "My sister all but wrote me a handbook of do's and don't's for my evening out." 

"Isn't your sister a freshman?" 

"Yeah, she is. An opinionated freshman." He shrugs up his shoulders, then lets them fall, plays it off like he's exaggerating when really Octavia, with a sixth sense born perhaps from knowing him his whole life, perhaps just from being fourteen years old and a girl, had detected his feelings for Clarke even before he had, then pounced on this date as his one chance, "so don't do anything dumb." 

"So, give me an example of a 'do' and 'don't,'" Clarke says. "A good one. And I'll," she sighs, long-suffering and overdone, "humble myself to take advice from a freshman." 

"She'd be flattered. But most if it was tailored to me. For example,” he pauses, then puts on his best Octavia-tone, “‘Do ask her questions. Don't talk a lot about school. All she knows about you is that you like history, books, and books about history. Avoid those topics at all costs.’” 

Clarke laughs. “Come on, I think I know a bit more about you than that.”  

For example, she knows he brings a thermos of coffee to evening practices, and that he prefers his orange juice without pulp. She knows how he tenses up when he's angry, his shoulders stiff and square and his jaw clenched like he's grinding down on his teeth. And she's seen him happy, too; she knows that wide, bright grin of his that brings a boyish roundness to his face, and she's even felt his embrace, rib-crushing strong and blanket-fort soft, excited and congratulatory but lingering too, or so she'd thought, after they beat Polis High to become District 4 champs—she remembers it precisely because it was when she first felt the spark, when she knew. She'd pulled away from him slowly, her hands still on his arms, fingers curled around his biceps, looking up into his face and daring herself not to look away. 

"But your sister's probably right," she adds. "We should avoid talking about school. And team stuff." 

Bellamy nods. "Right, because I think if I spend one more evening thinking about Constitutional amendments, or the longest rivers in the world—" 

"You might just lose your mind?" 

He smiles, just a quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Pretty much." 

"Me too." She steps up closer and curls her arm through his. "Let's get to know each other better instead." 

* 

Bellamy is momentarily shaken by her proximity: her hip bumping against his as they walk, her hand on his forearm, her shoulder bobbing up against his arm. But it's nice. They fall into step together easily. 

At first, they just wander, glancing in at the carnival games and souvenir booths, the stands selling popcorn and hot dogs and funnel cake. Bellamy hasn't been to the carnival since middle school, when he took Octavia, just barely young enough at the time not to think an evening out with her brother was the height of Uncool, and they almost made themselves sick riding the Tilt-A-Whirl after consuming a large serving of fried Oreos each. 

He tells Clarke this story and she laughs, then forces her expression into a sympathetic frown. "Is that why you haven't come back in three years?" she asks, and he shrugs. Not really. He got older, Octavia got older— 

But it all comes back to him right away: the smell of trampled grass and dirt cut with the scent of buttery popcorn, pickles, relish; the shouts of children streaking through a background of ambient laughter and muddled conversations, the clinks and creaks and high metal echoes of the rides and games; and everywhere an assault of bright reds and yellows and purples and blues, flashing lights and huge-lettered signs, the occasional cluster of perfect-oval balloons bobbing against each other in the breeze.  

"Have you been here before?" he asks. 

Clarke nods. "Yeah. Last year, with some friends. I think we went on all the rides in this place. Then we bought an indecent amount of food, sat out on the grass, and ate until we couldn’t move." 

"And that's how you avoided getting sick," he finishes. "Smart." 

"Oh, no, I still made myself sick. When they say 'large' popcorn they really mean _large popcorn_. Speaking of, how do you feel about cotton candy?" 

He thinks she looks cute nibbling at the side of a giant, fluffy swath of pink spun sugar, and it's almost enough to make him want to try some too, but he ends up with a medium popcorn instead. She steals a couple of especially buttery kernels from the top. When he pretends to be deeply insulted, she picks off a piece of shocking pastel fluff and holds it out for him. 

Bellamy hesitates, then pulls it off her fingers with his teeth. He's careful about it, doesn’t want to be awkward, and doesn't even graze her skin. But when she says, "Missed some," he returns, with a flick of tongue, an unadulterated buzz of slippery sweetness dissolving in his mouth and the thought, just as insubstantial and as fleeting, of lips and tongue to fingers, palm, and wrist. 

Clarke's cheeks are flushed a light pink, the color of the cotton candy swirl. 

"I know it's terrible for me," she says. (Bellamy, for a moment, has no idea what she means.) "But you just can't go to a carnival and not eat something sweet enough to rot your teeth." 

It is also impossible to go to a carnival and not play a single game of chance or skill, which is how they end up taking turns tossing small white whiffle balls into a merry-go-round of frog-shaped cups. The sign over the booth proclaims this game _The Lily Pad Toss_. They are both astonishingly bad at it. That Bellamy can't get anywhere close to sinking a ball into a frog makes Clarke feel a little better about her own atrocious aim. But only a little. She still has to bite back more than a few curses, lest she tarnish the innocence of the schoolchildren passing by. 

"So far I've learned that you're competitive," Bellamy notes calmly, as he picks out the last popped bits of corn among the kernels at the bottom of the bag. 

"Ha ha. Says the guy who almost pops a blood vessel every time anyone on the team misses a question." 

"Hey." He points a stern finger at her. "No talking about Decathlon stuff. Want the rest?" He tips the popcorn bag in her direction but Clarke waves it aside. 

"Shhh, don't distract me. I have one more try." She runs the tiny ball between her fingers, around and around in a circle like she's winding it up. Her brows are furrowed, and she shifts her weight backward onto her left foot, then forward to her right. When Bellamy was trying his hand at the lily pad toss, he was irrationally invested in it, too, but now that he's (reluctantly) accepted defeat, he can just stand back, and enjoy watching Clarke give it her all: the curl of her fingers, the swing of her skirt, the way she bounces slightly on her feet, the heel of her sneaker digging into the dirt. 

She narrows her eyes, pulls back her arm, swings it forward, lets the ball go... 

It lands with a dull thunk between two frog cups, onto the blue plastic runner that symbolizes the frogs' native lake.  

"Fu...dgsicles," Clarke mutters, not quite making eye contact with a passing mother and toddler-aged child. 

Bellamy barks out an appreciative laugh. He imagines himself pulling her toward him with two hands on her upper arms, leaning down to press a kiss to the bridge of her nose, right where it's wrinkled, adorably, in disappointment.  

"And I was planning to win you a hat, too," she sighs. She had her eye on a tall blue top hat with a bright gold sash that she thinks would have looked very dashing balanced on top of Bellamy's head. 

"Next time," he answers, then crumples his empty popcorn bag into a ball and launches it toward the nearest trash can. It arcs up perfectly and lands in the target with a light thump. 

"Not bad," Clarke says, with a nod. She's arched her eyebrows up toward her hairline, equal parts impressed and surprised. "Why couldn't you have done that before?" 

Bellamy shrugs. "Maybe we'll have better luck with darts." 

* 

They do, or Clarke does at any rate: she pops ten balloons in a row and wins Bellamy a plush gold hat in the shape of a crown. She stretches up on her toes and settles it carefully on top of his head. "I now decree that you, Bellamy Blake, are King of the Carnival," she intones. Then she lets her hands fall to his shoulders. From there they slip down further, trailing along his arms, lingering above his elbows; she's still tottering on her toes, using him for balance, her nose a few inches from his nose. She can see tiny flecks of gold in the deep brown of his eyes, constellations of freckles scattered across his skin. His hands rest, tentative and light, just above her waist, and she wishes he'd grab her and pull her close, jump off that edge of hesitation that she's balancing on, too. 

A breeze blows past them and she shivers, goosebumps breaking out along the skin of her arms and her bare legs. 

"You okay?" Bellamy asks. He tilts his head and the crown slips to the side, into a jaunty angle over his right ear. Clarke bites back on a giggle as she falls down on her heels. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Maybe a little chilly." She looks up at the sky beyond his shoulder. It's turned a velvet dusk-blue, gleaming pink and orange at the edges with the first signs of the setting sun. The Ferris Wheel arches up against it, slowly circling its riders to the first stars and back. "It's getting colder." 

"No kidding," Bellamy agrees, shrugging out of his jacket and holding it out to her. "Here. Just put it on over yours. It's a lot heavier." 

Clarke hesitates. "Aren't you going to be cold?" 

"I'll be fine." He shrugs, then gestures down toward his legs. "I'm wearing pants. Seriously, Clarke," he pauses to drape his jacket over her shoulders, and she grabs at the sleeves, pulling it closer before it can fall to the ground, "just take it." 

"Okay, all right." She only feigns reluctance for another second, anyway. She’s smiling by the time she pulls her arms through the sleeves. Bellamy's jacket is soft on the inside, and warm, and too big on her; it smells like him, and she loves it. "What gracious royalty you are, giving your jacket to a peasant." 

"Oh, Clarke," Bellamy frowns. "You're no peasant. Come on." Then he grabs her arm, and pulls her, jumping over her own feet so she doesn't trip over her toes, toward whatever it is that's caught his eye off in the distance. 

They stop short at the end of the aisle. _Ring the Bell_ , a giant sign proclaims, _A Feat of Strength_. She takes it in. Simple enough idea: swing a mallet, force the slim black disc up the shoot and—Clarke tilts back her head, gazing up and up—hit the bell. Win a prize. 

Bellamy buys three tickets, but he only needs one to send the bell chiming. This particular booth doesn’t have any queenly crowns, so instead he hands Clarke a gold wand with a star on top, which lights up in multicolor when she presses a button at its base. He asks if she’ll accept it as her scepter, and she does. 

* 

“Okay, I’ve got one,” Bellamy says, breaking a long beat of silence, as they shuffle forward another few inches in line. "If you could spend one month anywhere in the world, where would it be?" 

Clarke hums thoughtfully, swinging their hands between them. They have been holding hands for, she estimates, five minutes, give or take. She hasn't yet gotten used to the feeling of his palm, warm and large, against her palm. 

"I saw this really cool exhibit of Argentine paintings once," she answers at last. "Really inspiring. So, I think I would go to Buenos Aires... Or maybe I'd backpack across the whole country, with just the bare essentials and a sketchbook, and see what happens." She glances up at him, trying to make out his expression in the ambient neon glow of the carnival lights. The sun has fully set by now, but the fairgrounds are well lit by the flashing reds, blues, and greens of row after row of attractions and rides.  

Bellamy’s face is highlighted in bright yellow, then cool blue. He looks interested, appreciative, perhaps even subtly impressed. She can't tell if he is also surprised. "All right,” he nods. “I can see it: Clarke Griffin, adventurer." 

"That better not be you making fun of me." She knows she doesn’t seem like the type to drop it all and go off into the unknown, but she’s quite serious: she _could_ , maybe someday she even _will_ — 

Bellamy’s brow wrinkles, and he squeezes her hand tight, pulling her a little closer to him so that their shoulders bump. "Of course I'm not making fun of you.” His voice is lower this time, a secret shared or promise offered, and Clarke has to clear her throat and look away. 

"Okay, but you still have to give your answer,” she says.  

Bellamy takes a deep breath, like he needs the pause to think or to gather his words. Then: "Easy," he decides. "I'd go to England." He has several dozen travel fantasies stored away in the back of his brain, but this one is his favorite, and he doesn't hesitate to dust it off and bring it out to share with her. "Somewhere out in the countryside. I'd rent a little house and take long walks and get to know the local people." 

"And read a lot of books?" Clarke asks, nudging her elbow into his side. She sounds just a bit like _she's_ mocking _him_ , this time, but like Bellamy a minute before, there is no rancor to her tone. 

Bellamy tilts back his head and sighs a rough, defeated sigh. "I swear, I wasn't going to mention the _books_." The people ahead of them take a few steps forward, the line advancing slowly; Clarke tugs on his arm gently to remind him to move. Down at the end of the row, he sees the Tilt-a-Whirl, bringing its unlucky riders up, up and to the side, all the way down, a confusion of lights and laughter in the distance. A group of middle school boys runs past them, spilling popcorn and jelly beans in their wake. "Now it's your turn. Your question." 

Clarke considers for a moment, then asks, "Okay. What... innovation do you most hope we come up with in the future?" 

"Innovation?" He quirks an eyebrow up. "What do you mean, like...time travel, eye implants you can send messages with...a smartphone that's also a flip phone—stuff like that?" 

"Yeah, like sci-fi stuff." 

"Okay." This one is harder, and he stubs the toe of his shoe into the well-trampled dirt as he thinks. "I guess—space travel would be pretty cool. Space travel for civilians, like a widely available thing. Getting to know what other planets are like. Seeing Earth from above. I'd like that. What about you?" They’re not that far now from the front of the line, and he wants to hear her response. 

“I think I’d most like the ability to communicate with alien life,” Clarke answers. She’s staring ahead between the shoulder blades of the girl standing in front of her, too nervous to watch Bellamy’s reaction. He’ll probably say something incredulous like _how can you believe in aliens_ , think she’s ridiculous— 

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, light but curious: “What do you want to say to them?” 

Clarke opens her mouth, closes it again. Bellamy is watching her. His expression is open and inquisitive. His fingers are still curled through hers. 

“Actually,” she says, “it’s more that I’m curious about what _they_ would have to say to _us_.” 

Bellamy’s about to answer when the line empties out ahead of them and they reach the front at last. Their fingers unlink. She climbs up first, sliding along the bench of the shining red passenger car. He follows, and even though there is plenty of room, they sit leg against leg and arm against arm. She sees him reach to take her hand again, and then change his mind, wrapping his arm around her shoulders instead. 

Clarke smiles and cuddles in against his side. They lurch back and then, after a moment’s held-breath pause, begin their ascent. 

The Ferris Wheel lifts them, slowly and gently, toward the sky. Beneath them, the fairgrounds expand. The carnival transforms into a whole bright candy-colored world, populated by tiny beings, unfurled at their feet like a shining city in the darkness and it is all theirs, it feels like it might really be all theirs, like they are truly the king and queen they appointed themselves to be. 

Clarke breathes deep of the clear, sharp night air and feels another chill shiver through her, not the wind or the dark this time, but a tremor of awe because she is floating above the Earth, she is one with the sky and the stars, and because Bellamy is holding her close. She feels safe and powerful and tremendous and tiny, all at once.  

The tip of his nose presses above her ear, like he's trying to breathe her in, too. She hopes he's taking in the view. It is an amazing, a glorious view, and it's etching itself into her mind, a vision that she'll carry with her for the rest of her days: this view, and this feeling, and his arm around her shoulders, and their hands searching each other out again, fingers tangling up together again. 

Bellamy waits until the highest stop, the very tip-top of the carnival world, and then he pulls away from her slightly, enough to tilt his head and look into her eyes. Her gentle smile softens her whole face. He wonders if she knows how she looks, how light and how happy and how blissful she looks. She looks how he feels and he wonders if the same emotion, the same thrum of feeling, glows through him, if she can see what he sees and if she's thinking what he's thinking. 

He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Her smile breaks open wider: a flash of teeth, an intake of breath; for a moment, he thinks she might be about to laugh at him. But instead she presses forward, arches up. His arm falls from her shoulders and his hand lets go of her hand. He wraps his arms around her waist instead and she sets her hands on his shoulders; the palm of one hand slides up into his hair, fingers stretching through the curls behind his ear. The moment is soft and spring-green, but the tug of her fingers through his hair is possessive. Yearning and wanting. 

He breathes in deep and she breathes in deep. 

And just before they exhale— 

They meet, like magnets. The kiss feels the way fireworks look as they burst, like a streak of pure heat through them both. A flicker of tongue, a low sound caught between teeth. She tugs him closer, her fingers tangling in his hair as his hand splays out across her back, pulling her body against his.  

The passenger car sways and their knees bump. She's afraid that she's losing her balance. She catches on to him and he laughs, adoring, against her mouth. Barely broken apart, they return. The kiss takes away their breath, lifts them up, even as the Ferris Wheel starts to bring them back to Earth, smooth and slow, again. It doesn't matter. They are floating. They have claimed their place at the top of the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are always appreciated. You can also find me on [tumblr](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/).


End file.
